The Well
by toadstoolcouch
Summary: Reflections of Mozenrath's tortured life with Destane, his past, his father, etc., while being stuck in a well. Warnings for underage, graphic non con sexual situations, mentions of violence and past abuse


Water was condensing on the ceiling and dripping back down into the boy's mouth in cold, filthy rivulets that tasted like wood. Taller and taller the boy stretched himself, even as every muscle and tendon ached and grated, but still he tried to stretch even further. By now the water level would have reached his eyes if he were not reaching his lips to the ceiling, sucking desperately at the small space of air left.

Were he still at that threshold between boyhood and manhood, his own nakedness would have stirred up his emotions and caused his body to pulse with excited life. But as the years passed such situations became commonplace, and the novelty began to wear off. Not that any of those "situations" had ever been pleasant or asked for; his body had simply been over responsive.

But he was too afraid for his own life to enjoy the satisfaction of having learned a bit of self control.

He had been in there, a well, or so he vaguely remembered, since before the sun rose that morning. Dragged from his sleep, the boy had felt his master's firm hand lead him along by the arm, and the cold stone turn to sand beneath his bare feet; he had smelled the vague trace of musk swathed behind the earthy, wholesome smell of his master's robes. But in the darkness and with sleep still fresh, he had no idea what was happening until the first shock of wet cold when he was thrust into the well.

Sunlight filtered through the wood paneling of the cover and told him when it became day, when it became late afternoon, and now, when it had turned to dusk, and the water's chill was no longer the relief it was during the heat of midday. The water level had risen from the level of his waist in a slow but certain pace. Even before it rose an inch, Mozenrath knew that he would either be consumed by the waters or barely escape death at the last minute, after an agony of waiting. He still couldn't decide which fate would be preferable.

What was this punishment for? He had taunted himself with that question all day, despite his efforts to chase it away. It could have been anything; indeed, he had mentally gone over everything that could have been interpreted as insolence or rebellion or laziness. Even after all day, his list was far from complete.

His master didn't punish him for sins immediately every time. Sometimes there would be a ready slap or a strap over any exposed skin within seconds, and sometimes Destane would wait to punish his apprentice. Of course the waiting, the wondering, was punishment enough, in Mozenrath's opinion.

Suddenly he thought of his father, or what sorry trace of memories he had of him. He had been sold to Destane when he was still very young. He remembered his childhood only as he would a dream fresh from waking; the general idea was there, but he could not focus on too many specific details. He could remember a palace, or maybe it just seemed like a palace to his childish eyes.

He did remember that his father was anything but a father to him. It as a wonder that he knew that well dressed, tall, and formidable man was his father at all. He had been tended to by a fleet of nurses and maids, none of them standing out in his memory. All he could really remember is that he had been surrounded by faceless, nameless women, some of whom scolded and slapped, some of whom tickled and sneaked treats to.

The day he was sold was a strange mixture of emotions for him, even now. Now that he had grown, an old man at sixteen, Mozenrath knew that his father, J—he must not even think that name; the last time he uttered it he was beaten severely—he knew that his father had sold him to the great sorcerer for a sum that Destane lived on still. In fact, he wasn't sure, but he had reason to believe that Destane was still receiving payments for keeping him.

Mozenrath also knew that officially, he was being trained in the arcane arts that Destane was a master of. In fact, Destane was unquestionably the most powerful and knowledgeable mortal sorcerer, at least anywhere around here. And the boy had indeed learned much from him. If he were suddenly on his own tomorrow, he believed he could hold his own against other sorcerers, as long as he had access to a few choice artifacts.

But what would his father think if he knew what really went on? Or would he even care? In all this time, he had never seen his father again. If he could believe what he had heard, with his ear pressed against the walls in the dead of night, then his father was still at the palace, and doing very well for himself.

He still clung to the hope that perhaps his father would come for him once he had learned all that he could from his master.

He forced himself to stop with those thoughts. It was causing him to tear up and his nose to fill, and he needed that to help him breathe.

Maybe he was meant to die in here, for not learning fast enough? He personally thought that he was excelling at his studies. He memorized every spell book given to him, and he quickly mastered any skill taught to him. Of course he was used to being handled roughly and treated as a general nuisance, but there had been times when his master's eyes would light up in approval. As much as he hated and feared his master, Mozenrath still treasured those rare moments, and his body still reacted to them, no matter how hard he'd try to control it. As his master liked to say, the lips may lie, but the cock does not.

For a moment his body sagged, and not just from the sheer exhaustion. He hadn't had anything to eat all day, and while he was totally immersed in water, he restricted himself from drinking more than a few mouthfuls during midday, because he had been forced to make it unclean. So it had only been his will to live that had kept him fighting for breath, and now that will faltered. Destane would have come for him by now, he was thinking. He'd been put in situations like this many times before, but his master had always saved him, or he was given the opportunity to save himself. He understood the point: Destane insisted that he would be everything to Mozenrath. A teacher, a disciplinarian, and yes, even a father. And even though it was purely Destane's intention, Mozenrath could not help but feel relief whenever his master "rescued" him. Relief, gratitude...love?

If he were meant to die now, that would mean that he was a failure as a student. He was already a failure as a son, apparently, if his own father would send him away and never come to see him. But all his confidence in himself faded when he considered the fact that maybe Destane was giving up on him.

But hadn't he passed all those tests? He knew that Destane enjoyed causing pain and distress in others; he wasn't his master's only victim. But the trails, the punishments, the ever increasing standards, that was to train him to become better, right? Why waste the time and put himself at risk by allowing his apprentice near potentially dangerous artifacts if not for training? And as torturous as each test was, they did make Mozenrath stronger, a tougher and fiercer person, and a more valuable servant to Destane. Other sorcerers kept a whole army of servants and protégées, but Destane only had one. And why would that be, unless Destane intended something great for him?

Mozenrath burst back through the water to suckle the ever shrinking bubble of air after a few minutes of tormenting himself with these thoughts. His own thoughts couldn't be trusted; there was no way to know the mind of another man, especially one as private as Destane, so there was no point. He hoped that Destane had meant to kill him. He hoped that later that night Destane would peel open the cover and find living, baleful eyes glaring up at him in the darkness.

It was that hatred that kept him fighting against his fatigued and aching body. It was a cold, but oddly peaceful feeling. Hatred was good at waiting for the right time. Hatred was something not even Destane could take away, no matter what other emotions he might force on him. Hatred would give the helpless, despised boy his only real power.

He felt the sudden, freezing whip of air strike his face before anything else. His eyes snapped shut reflexively, and he would have crumpled back in the water if he hadn't been roughly yanked out of the well. The boy felt himself splash to the ground like a caught fish, stale water and oily tendrils of hair spilling down his face.

As he coughed and sputtered and greedily drank in the cool, fresh night air, Mozenrath was almost tempted to give in to gratitude. He would have clung to his master's legs and thanked him, as he would have done in the past, but he stopped himself. That might have been acceptable for a child, but he wasn't a weak and wretched mere child anymore.

Destane stood by quietly, as if waiting for that childish response, and when he didn't get it, he pulled his apprentice by the hair to his knees, yanking his head back to face him. Mozenrath's lips trembled, fighting to form into the sneer he longed to give, but instead he looked on the verge of tears. He stared into that face he knew better than his own, shivering from cold and dread, his body desperately grateful for any amount of rest, despite the pain of being held up by the hair.

He tried to keep his eyes on his master's, but soon looked away, unable to handle that intense stare any longer. Hot tears streaked down his face, along with the cool well water dribbling from his hair. He craved his straw bed; he would have gladly curled up to sleep right there, on the sand.

"You'll think twice next time, won't you, boy?" Destane snarled, giving Mozenrath's head a harsh jerk.

He still didn't know what he was talking about. So that had been a punishment, but the boy didn't know what for, and he wasn't about to ask. Even so, he felt the sting of remorse for whatever it was he had done or said and nodded pitifully.

"Answer me properly!"

Mozenrath closed his eyes. "Yes, Master," he grunted. It was second nature for him to say that, and he rarely even thought about it. But the few times that he did, like now, he hated it. How he dreamed of the day that he would never have to say it again. Or even better, to hear such words said to him...

He didn't move when Destane let go, but remained on his knees until ordered to move. Pure exhaustion kept him still anyway. As his master tore open his sash and fiddled with his robes, Mozenrath stared blankly ahead, his eyes unfocused and pointed to the endless desert behind his master's body. At Destane's light touch on the back of his head, the boy pressed forward and gaped his mouth open wide, letting the man's flesh slide in over his tongue. He had long ago learned to accept this as just part of his life. There wasn't anything disturbing about it anymore. His master didn't taste bad, in fact he had grown to rather like the taste by now. And thankfully, his master held both himself and his apprentice to high standards of hygiene. So, considering other men he had encountered during his lifetime, he was rather lucky in this regard.

If he weren't so tired and weakened, Mozenrath would have put more effort into pleasing Destane. He would usually approach this chore as any other test. Satisfying Destane meant extra food for the day, a short but blissful reprieve from physical discipline, and that strange, intoxicating feeling he got any time he won Destane's approval. As close to passing out as he was, Mozenrath was still able to feel his master's body begin to awaken with pleasure, his skin grow hot, his flesh quiver, and this awoke his own arousal as well. Since it was dark, the boy dared to reach down and touch himself in response, but only once, lest he was discovered. He clasped both hands behind his back to prevent the temptation as he continued.

Soon his master took hold of his hair and began to pump the boy's head back and forth. This enabled Mozenrath to rest and just keep his mouth slack while Destane did all the work. He would usually be shamed into thinking that his efforts weren't good enough, but at the moment, he was too tired to care.

"Don't let a single drop escape," Destane snarled above him, although the warning was hardly necessary. Mozenrath already knew very well his duty. And after a long day with nothing but the defiled well water to pass through his lips, he actually took a hungry pleasure from drinking his master's seed, once it burst down his throat. He had to consciously resist touching himself once again as he carefully licked and lapped it all up, taking his hand from behind his back only to wipe the mess from his face and lick it.

Destane lifted the boy with one hand, almost lifting him right off his feet, and then lead him back to their modest home. His grip was iron-like, even though there was no worry of Mozenrath making a run for it. There was no point to even try that, not with miles and miles of desert being more effective than any fence or wall. It occurred to Mozenrath that maybe Destane was holding him so hard so that he would not fall, but that thought withered, as did his vague desire to lean against him. It had been so very long since he had another warm body to lean on...

Without another word between them, the boy was lead back to his room and locked in once more. Without a thought to food, without even brushing the hair from his eyes, he collapsed onto the pile of straw that was his bed and welcomed sleep.

Only he was interrupted yet again, this time by a small, but persistent tap on his shoulder. By now he had learned to recognize that tap, even the smell of the creature, so he felt safe to snap at it and turn over.

"Mozenrath," the creature hissed, floating over to the other side to tap him again. "Wake up!"

"Leave me!" the boy croaked, and used what little energy he had left to swat the familiar away.

The scent of stale bread woke him, though, and he snatched the roll from Xerxes' fins and wolfed it down. Already sick from the sudden gluttony, Mozenrath leaned against the wall and sighed. He was still very hungry, but he was grateful for that little bit. He showed his gratitude to Xerxes by not striking him again.

The eely familiar slithered through the air closer to his owner, regarding him with those piercing, asymmetrical eyes. For a moment Mozenrath resisted the urge, but soon gave in, grabbing Xerxes in a fierce, tight hug. He could keep the tears in no longer, free as he was to express his misery to this lowly, despicable creature. In his world, only Xerxes was lower than himself.

Xerxes was quiet for a while, letting the boy sob painfully into his scales and squeeze him a little hard for comfort. He even snaked a fin around the boy's neck in a pitiful caricature of a loving friend's caress.

But soon Xerxes slipped out of Mozenrath's grip and floated right in front of his face. "Do you know why he punished you today?" The words slithered out of his mouth like slime, but Mozenrath paid them proper attention. He shook his head. "You are growing stronger," the familiar hissed. "You are becoming a threat."

Mozenrath would have laughed at that, had he the energy. Instead he made a face and looked away.

"It's true!" Xerxes persisted. "Soon you will become more powerful than him and overthrow him."

This time Mozenrath did laugh, but it was a cold, weak sound. "Don't be a fool," he snarled, lowering himself to bed again.

Xerxes flew down to the level of his master's eyes and turned his face to look at him with his fins. "It's true! He is trying to break you down so that you won't think to challenge him!"

"He doesn't need to! Only a suicidal idiot would--"

"You could defeat him with the gauntlet," Xerxes nearly shouted, and Mozenrath was quiet for a moment.

"What gauntlet?" he asked carefully, although he did know. It was one of the many artifacts Destane had, but one of the few that he was never allowed to touch. It was always locked away in a chest, and only rarely did Destane ever wear it. He'd only seen it in action a few times, always in secret. He dared not ask about it, but he would often dream of it, wondering what it could do, what were its limitations, its origins, its properties. He could recite such facts about any other artifact in the gallery, but not that one.

Xerxes ignored his question and pressed on. "Destane is nothing without it. You are already leaning more now than he has in his entire life. If you had that gauntlet, you could destroy him."

Mozenrath bit his lip and turned over, wishing he could escape into the safety of sleep. Of course he had such thoughts before, but he hadn't dared dwell on them. Just thinking of any sort of rebellion was dangerous, as it always seemed that Destane could read his thoughts. If anything, being armed with such a daring and hopeful plan would make him act different, and that alone could lead to trouble.

"I could never wield..."

"Yes, you can!" Xerxes flew to the other side and closer. "I have seen many mages, many. I know more than you about what a real sorcerer can do!"

"How do you expect me to get it, then?" Mozenrath snapped, but he had to admit, this could work...

"I don't know," Xerxes said, deflating a bit. "But I will help you. I will see if the chest is locked, or I could watch the next time Destane--"

"Enough," Mozenrath commanded, and this time Xerxes did obey him. "We will discuss this in the morning." He lay his head down. "Please, let me sleep," he whispered, already half asleep as he said this.

Xerxes smiled to himself as he watched the boy drift off. He was stinking, skinny and weakly, hardly the mold for a great sorcerer, certainly no match for the likes of Destane. And going after the gauntlet could lead to both their deaths. In fact, the familiar had unwittingly caused the death of his last master, a sullen and devious young girl who had been sold to Destane in the same way Mozenrath had. He had pushed her to the same rash plan, and she was killed once Destane found out. Just looking at him right now, Xerxes had little to suggest that Mozenrath would do any better.

But eventually someone was going to succeed. If not Mozenrath, well, there was always the next apprentice.

THE END


End file.
